


And I Hang Like A Star

by jackiefreckles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, Clarke's over enthusiastic about petty crime because of course she is, Crime, Gritty, Multi, Poor, Sinclair doing the most, modern found family au, overuse of the pet name princess, small town, tw: child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiefreckles/pseuds/jackiefreckles
Summary: Dirt poor and living dangerously close to the bone, Bellamy is at the end of his rope when a wealthy teenage girl helps him steal his next meal. Their connection is immediate, but he doesn't expect to see her again. Then a troubled young woman moves to town, bringing with her a host of problems...and a familiar face.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Bellamy Blake, John Murphy/Raven Reyes, Monty Green/Harper McIntyre
Comments: 32
Kudos: 71





	1. Things Start Splitting At the Seams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StanleyPilar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StanleyPilar/gifts).



> Yes, I KNOW I shouldn't be starting another WIP, but that's never stopped me before!

Murphy always makes stealing seem easy. Bellamy’s known him to show up with five packages of expensive steaks, or a veritable haul of wine bottles. Bellamy still can’t figure out how Murphy makes it happen, but then, he’s a slim, furtive creature, well-practiced at sliding under people’s noses. Bellamy’s different, though. He’s tall and handsome and people notice him. Sinclair says Bellamy has a commanding presence, even though the only thing he’s ever been in charge of is a ragtag group of teenagers who proudly call themselves delinquents. He’s a recognizable figure in Polis, the guy with four jobs, spotted all over town fixing and cooking and tinkering. He needs people’s trust, and he won’t have it if he gets caught lifting skim milk at Food Plus.

That’s why he’s driven to Arkadia. Octavia’s starving and he needs every dime of the cash in his pocket to fill his truck with gas and pay the electric bill, and Arkadia’s far enough away that he won’t be recognized and exactly big enough that he should fly under the radar. 

He parks his truck three streets over. The air is heavy, the day gray. Feels like snow’s coming. He pulls his ratty hoodie closer, hoping he doesn’t look too disheveled. It’s not the nicest hoodie—a hand me down from one of Miller’s brothers—but it’s the warmest thing he owns, and the wind is viciously cold.

Bellamy mooches around the grocery store a little bit before he commits to his list: milk, ground beef, the biggest block of cheese he can find, and whatever fruit he can fill his pockets with.

He’s got the fruit and the cheese and is studying the milk contemplatively when a low voice sing songs, “they’re watching you,” from his elbow.

_No matter what, keep cool, play innocent_ , Murphy had said that morning before they parted ways. _If you have to, abort mission, we’ll go somewhere else tonight._ So Bellamy merely eyeballs the speaker, a slim teenage girl with golden curls. She’s wearing an expensive down jacket and a blue toque with a pompom on top. 

She's distractingly pretty, but...

_Don’t get caught_ , Murphy had repeated, _you’re not a minor anymore._

“I don’t think they’ve actually seen you take anything,” the girl informs him. “Just play it off. Pick up the milk.”

Listening to a stranger, especially one who’s probably never had to steal anything, is probably not a good idea.

But Bellamy needs the milk, and this girl seems to have a plan, so he opens the door and grabs it confidently. 

“What else do you need?” she asks quietly, and he nods his head towards the meat. 

She’s looking over his shoulder, and she suddenly sidesteps him, gives a brilliant smile and a wave to an employee. “Hey, Russ! How’s your mom doing?” A quick, loud conversation follows while Bellamy carefully slides hamburger meat into the thin plastic bags offered. Last thing he needs is nasty meat juice running down his legs while he hoofs it back to his truck. 

The girl returns to his side: “got it? Anything else?” She pulls gloves out of a pocket, “I can probably fit something small in here. You need deodorant? Toothpaste?” 

Not a bad idea, and she follows him, smoothly sliding the toiletries in her pockets, greeting any interested parties by name and, Bellamy thinks, quietly reminding them of who she is. Someone important. Not to be trifled with. 

Like a princess.

Near the front of the store she shoves four candy bars up her sleeve with a practiced shake.

“They probably won’t have the guts to follow us--they won’t want to risk tangling with my grandfather. But we’d better at least pretend we’re not stealing...give me the milk? And tuck those trays in your belt.” She unzips her jacket and settles the quart of milk between her breasts, then zips it back up. He pulls his sweatshirt over the meat, shifting uncomfortably. “Okay. Where’s your car?”

“On Forest Drive.” 

“Alright. Just...walk out.”

For one shining moment, he really believes they’re not going to say a word. But then someone yells, “Hey! Get back here!” in the same moment the princess hisses, 

“Run!”

Bellamy doesn’t know the area, whips his head back and forth, and she grabs his hand, pulls him down a side street, they’re hand-in-hand running at a dead sprint down an alleyway and across someone’s pristine backyard. He doesn’t have the guts to look back, but she keeps throwing quick glances over her shoulder. Her eyes are sparkling, cheeks pink, no fear in her, and even if he did know the way around this town he'd probably follow her anywhere. When she finally slows down, breathing heavily, and starts walking at a deliberately casual pace, he's grateful. There's a stitch throbbing in his side. They proceed, both silent and with heaving chests, in a roundabout manner to Forest Drive, and Bellamy unlocks both doors without a word so they can collapse into the front seat. 

There’s something of a magician about her as she begins to pull all manner of products from her various pockets, and then sets the milk on the center seat with a flourish. “Your groceries, good sir.”

Bellamy adds the apples and oranges from his cargoes, the meat, two giant blocks of cheese, and a box of his sister’s favorite cereal. 

For some reason this last bit gives the girl a fit of giggles. “Well, at least you got your Lucky Charms. You might starve to death this winter, but at least you’ll have cereal tomorrow.”

The casual cruelty of this statement hits Bellamy like a blow, and she watches it play across his face with horror, “oh, God, I’m so sorry. Am I right? Are you going to starve to death? Because we can hit every grocery store in a hundred mile radius if you want, I’ll back you up.” 

As much as he’d like to Bonnie-and-Clyde his way across Northern Kansas with this absolutely gorgeous girl, Bellamy’s expected for the night shift at Sinclair’s Diner, so he turns on the truck and prays the heater will warm up his numb hands.

“Can I drop you home somewhere?”

She’s watching him. Her eyes are the clearest, deepest blue he’s ever seen. She nibbles on her lower lip, says, “you don’t have to. I can walk.”

“It’s the least I can do, Princess. You just helped me steal food for a week.”

“It’s not far.” She directs him to the closest stoplight, then down a few winding suburban streets. His teeth are chattering, fingers blue, and she misses nothing: “Do you have a coat? It’s supposed to be even colder than this tomorrow.”

“No,” he replies, clipped, curt. Her eyes are still glued to his profile so he adds, “gave it to my sister. She outgrew hers, couldn’t afford another.”

“You’re from Polis?” 

Of course he is, it’s the closest, shittiest town, full of potholed roads that never get fixed, a high school that doesn’t have a single sports team, houses where the families can’t always afford to pay for essentials like heating or roof repairs. People like him, working as much as they can yet going nowhere, stuck, drowning. 

Bellamy’s nobody from nothing, will never be more than that, but when he pulls up to the girl’s house he realizes that she is definitely someone from something. Her house is like one from a movie, all white brick and giant porch, and two sleek BMWs sit in the driveway, status symbols in a town where everyone already knows who she is. 

She’s got a thoughtful look on her face, and she tells him, “wait here, okay? Just a minute,” as she scrambles down the seat and into the house. She’s back in a flash holding a bundle of fabric, panting a little. 

“What’s that?” He eyes her suspiciously. 

“It’s a coat,” she sounds like she’s talking to someone monumentally stupid. “It’s fucking cold, dude, you need one. It was my dad’s, and he’s not wearing it.”

Bellamy slides out of the truck, “won’t he miss it, though?”

She bites her lip again, shrugs slim shoulders, looks away. “He died six months ago, so…”

Once, Bellamy was prideful enough that he would have said no. He would have been offended. He would have driven off in a huff, grumbling about rich people and their faux charity.

Today, he’s just cold, and tired, and coming down from the high of dashing through alleyways hand in hand with a beautiful girl.

“Please,” she insists, “he would have wanted you to have it. I want you to have it.”

So he accepts it, and then inexplicably offers: “I’m Bellamy.”

“Clarke.”

A blush starts in the back of his neck but he can’t help but grin a little at her. “Well, Clarke. Thanks for committing petty larceny with me, but I’m due at the diner in two hours so I have to run.”

“You’re not headed off to embark on a life of crime? I’m so disappointed,” Clarke teases. “Probably for the best, though. You’re not very good at it.”

“And you _are_ shockingly good at it.”

Clarke brushes a kiss across his cheek before saying goodbye. 

“Take care, Bellamy. Don’t come back to Arkadia. Everyone’s going to know about this before the end of the day.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve made things hard for you.”

“Oh, please. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years. My mom’s going to be furious.” She seems curiously pleased by that. “Thanks.”

He watches her jog lightly across the lawn, a new and bright feeling turning over in his chest. 

Octavia’s studying at the rickety coffee table in the living room, her dark hair pulled up, nose only inches from the book. She probably needs glasses, though they can't afford them. It's out of the question. The house is freezing and she’s wearing her coat with the collar turned up, blankets wrapped around her on the floor. It’ll be dark soon and she chatters mindlessly as he unloads the groceries into the fridge.   
Octavia’s trustworthy, but Bellamy hates the thought of her alone in the house at night, so his friends take turns sleeping over. Tonight it’s Harper, tomorrow, Jasper.

Bellamy presents Octavia with one of the half-melted chocolate bars Clarke stuffed up her sleeve, and she rips it open with glee. He hears a car door slam and watches Harper walk through the snow, plastic bags balanced on either arm, calling a “Heyoooo,” when she gets to the porch. She stomps the slush off her boots at the door and dumps the bags on the kitchen table, smiling at Bellamy.

“Sinclair sent some stuff for you. He says they’re expiring, but you know how he is.”

The thing about being dirt poor in an equally dirt poor town is that no one can afford to give you charity, no matter how much they want to. Jacapo Sinclair, who owns both the diner and the auto shop, is what passes for wealthy in Polis. He’d be wealthier if he wasn’t such a soft touch, fixing people’s cars for cheap or free, ordering extra food so that he can give it away under the guise of ‘it’ll spoil soon.’ He always schedules both Harper and Bellamy a solid twenty hours a week at the diner, even when there’s no one in, even when there’s a blizzard or a tornado predicted, they can rely on those twenty hours. He insists on paying them each ten dollars an hour plus tips, and an extra three bucks an hour if they’re in charge. When Bellamy’s mom stopped coming home during his sophomore year, and he needed more money suddenly, desperately, Sinclair both hired him to work in the garage during his only free hours and loaned him the rent money for that month. He let Octavia do her homework at the back corner booth for years, slipping her french fries and soda refills while Bellamy waited tables. 

Bellamy never had a father, doesn’t know how that might feel, but imagines a good one would be just like Sinclair. 

Harper unpacks her bags: hot dogs, two loaves of bread, a carefully sealed half-packet of bacon, five slightly mushy oranges, a carton of eggs. Half of a banana cream pie that looks like it’s seen better days, but Bellamy shovels a forkful of it into his mouth anyway. “Breakfast for dinner?” Harper calls to Octavia, and takes the younger girl’s silence for assent. 

“Ugh, I stink,” she turns her nose up, shedding her heavy coat and untangling her hair from the silly paper hat that’s part of their uniform, “you guys have hot water this month?”

“For a couple more days, at least,” Bellamy doesn’t think he can pay the gas bill, and represses an involuntary shiver at the thought of the icy showers he’ll be taking. It won’t be the first or the last time it’s happened, but there’s something especially torturous about it in January. 

“Gonna shower, then.” She drifts down the hall, and Bellamy follows to change into his uniform. She smells of the grease fryer, her long honey blonde hair soaks up the scent during every shift. 

“The washing machine’s making a weird noise,” he tells her, “but you can still wash your uniform, it’s working fine.”

“Monty’s coming by later. I’ll have him look at it.”

“Okay. There’s school tomorrow, so don’t let Octavia stay up all night playing poker with him, alright?”

“Mm. Sure.” The pipes shriek as she turns on the water, and Bellamy hastens to change and throw his new coat over the top.

“O,” he yanks on his sister’s ponytail on his way out of the house, “behave. Bed by eleven.”

“Love you,” she tells him distantly. “Have a good shift.”

She looks a little pale, he thinks. A little tired, a little worn. She’s been studying hard recently, and she babysits the Atkins kids next door every day for three hours after school to bring in a little money. She doesn’t charge them enough because they can’t pay much, but it’s better than nothing, and she knows that Fox would have to quit her job if Octavia stopped watching them. They’re too little to stay alone. Fox needs her job, needs her insurance, because the oldest of the kids has a heart condition and their dad is a deadbeat.

Fox is exhausted, too. 

They’re all feeling a little worn out recently, he thinks, even Harper, who’s usually full of shining eyes and words of encouragement, seems down. 

It’s the winter that does it. The brutal cold, the dirty snow, the way the entire town seems grim and dark. It feels endless, just day after day of broken heaters and hand-me-down boots and noses that run and not enough to eat. 

Octavia dreams of escaping.

Bellamy knows they never will. 

Holding Clarke’s hand and running through town felt electric and special, like being truly awake for the first time in years, and that’s not enough for Bellamy but it’s something, so he holds it like a precious jewel, tucks it away in his mind for revisiting another time. 

He sleepwalks through five days, shift after shift and one brilliant morning where he gets to sleep until ten, and then he’s back at the diner again and Sinclair says, “Oh, Bellamy. This came for you.”

A neatly labeled envelope addressed to _Bellamy at Sinclair’s Diner_. He turns it over in his hand, confused, and Harper comes up next to him and says, “Who’s it from?”

“I can honestly say I have no idea,” he replies.

“Looks like a girl’s handwriting. Your mom?”

Fucking doubtful.

“Open it, Bellamy.”

There’s no one eating except an older couple sitting in their usual booth at the far end, so Bellamy slides a butter knife under the envelope flap and pulls out a sheet of paper. Only Harper hears him when five perfect, crisp hundred dollar bills flutter to the floor and he sucks in a sharp breath with, “shit.”

“What the fuck?” Harper asks, the edge of her voice hard, as they rush to pick up the bills. Bellamy crams the money into his pocket and opens the sheet of paper. It’s covered in drawings, all around the edges and rising from the corner, but the words are simply written in perfect private-school script: 

_To: Bellamy from Polis.  
Payment For: Services Rendered--Entertainment.   
With much appreciation, CJG.  
Notes: Don’t starve._

In the bottom left corner there is a perfect sketch of him, dark curls wild, dimple in his chin, freckles scattering his cheeks like constellations. In the top right corner there is a small, detailed quart of milk. Two tiny figures run down a street, a coat on a hanger in a closet, dozens of miniscule drawings that relate to the hour they spent together. 

Harper’s got velvet brown eyes on him and she repeats, in case it wasn’t clear the first time, “what the fuck?”

A different version of Bellamy would drive this cash right up to Clarke’s fairytale house and throw it in her face. He’d ask her who the hell she thinks she is, giving him money like he’s some sort of escort. But this version of Bellamy has a sister who’s perpetually hungry, an overdue gas bill, a washing machine in need of a new hose and shoes with a hole in the sole. This version of Bellamy is exhausted, overworked, constantly terrified of losing the tenuous grip he has on his life. 

This version of Bellamy is at the end of his rope, and he’s going to keep the goddamn cash and pray he never sees Clarke again, for the shame and pain that comes along with accepting her gift. 

When Harper presses, “Bellamy, who’s it from?” he snottily replies, 

“A princess,” and leaves it at that, even though she narrows her eyes and huffs around for the next few hours.

A princess, though she’s the one who rescued him.

A princess, who he’ll never have access to.

A princess he’ll never know, and it’s for the best, but when he looks at the drawing she made of him, his freckles detailed as minuscule stars, he fleetingly wishes things could be different.

Can’t count on that, though. 

Can only count on another snowy day, the grinding repetition of tomorrow’s shift at the auto shop, the fact that Murphy’ll have a black eye the morning after payday. 

But then Raven Reyes comes to town, and finally, something breaks.


	2. Maybe This Year Will Be Better Than the Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raven Reyes rolls into town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is going to deal with child abuse on several levels. I will put a warning on chapters that contain the abuse actually taking place, but there will be a lot of references to it. If this is triggering to you, I highly recommend that you skip this fic.

Another week goes by before Harper meets him dramatically over the counter at the diner with a stage whisper: “I’ve got gossip.”

Gossip is usually pretty tame: Murphy sleeps with Fox again, even though she’s seven years older than him and has three kids. Miller’s older brothers cause a ruckus at the bar and Diyoza swears they’re banned, really banned this time. (They are never really banned. Can’t ban your best customers.) So-and-so is having a baby with so-and-so, and everyone knows. 

But. Gossip passes the time, and Harper always relays it with such relish, so Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her. _Go on…_

“Sinclair has a niece,” --and this _is_ a surprise, since he always says that his employees are his only family-- “and she got in trouble and didn’t have anywhere to go so she’s moving here.”

“Someone is willingly moving to this shithole?” Bellamy wipes a spot on the counter he’s wiped a dozen times already. Everything’s spotless; it’s snowing again and they’ve barely had a customer all day. 

“Yes. Her name is Raven and she’s 17 and she did something really bad, I think, but I don’t know what.”

“She going to school, then?” Another wild friend to shield Octavia from. 

“Graduated early. Sinclair said, and I quote, she’s too smart for her own good but her life is going down the drain.”

“And living here is going to change that?”

“Don’t be such a negative nancy, Bellamy. Maybe she just needs a change of pace. Sinclair’s great, maybe he’ll be good for her.”

And that is true enough. Sinclair, who replaced Bellamy’s fender two days ago without charging a penny, is great. 

Bellamy paid the gas bill, replaced the washer hose, bought himself and Octavia new pairs of cheap shoes, and hid the rest of the money in a Bible. He wants to save it for as long as possible, but knowing that it’s there in case the pipes burst or Octavia really does need those new glasses is a small comfort.

He’s still blushing with shame every time he thinks of Clarke, still getting a little flip in his stomach when he remembers the feeling of her hand in his, the reckless smile on her face when she pulled the milk out. He wonders how long it took her to clock him, how long it took her to decide to help. 

“...right, Bellamy?” Harper’s saying, and he pulls himself back to the present with difficulty. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“We should have a bonfire when she gets here,” Harper repeats, “you know you’re acting really weird lately, right?”

He doesn’t bother to respond to her second sentence. “It’s too fucking cold for a bonfire, McIntyre, are you crazy?”

“That’s what the fire...and the alcohol...are for.”

“So you want me to take Sinclair’s underage niece who’s already in trouble, and get her drunk around an open flame?”

“Bellamy, if you want to get technical, we’re all fucking underage. Including you.”

“Yeah, but we’re lost causes,” Bellamy grins at her a little bit, “this girl might have a chance, you know? Not from here, might escape.”

Harper’s got a haunted look in her eyes, but tries to smile back: “No one escapes, Bellamy.” She plays with a salt shaker, “we might as well give her some friends in purgatory.”

“When’s she showing up?”

“Tonight, I think, or maybe tomorrow. She’s going to work at the garage. Sinclair said she’s a whiz of a mechanic. So you’ll probably get to know her whether you want to or not.”

Bellamy’s definitely not a whiz of a mechanic, but he’s good enough. Hopes having Raven around won’t take away from his hours, hopes she won’t have bad habits that Octavia picks up on, wonders idly if she’ll be pretty like Harper or defeated like Fox.

Harper turns up the radio and sings along while she mops up a puddle forming under the door. Miller’s dad comes in for a cup of coffee and asks after Octavia, Richard the mailman orders a giant stack of pancakes even though it’s 4PM. 

And the day passes like so.

Sinclair lives in one of the nicer houses in Polis, a simple red clapboard next door to his auto shop. Even though Bellamy’s been prepared by Harper, he’s still a little surprised to see an unfamiliar car and a small, svelte motorbike in the driveway when he pulls in for work. The front door is hanging wide open despite the cold, and the back doors of the car are open, too. Before he’s all the way out of his truck a slim, dark haired girl wearing a bright red jacket comes through the doorway and stops on the stairs, stock-still, when she sees him. 

Her voice, her face, her posture: everything is a challenge when she says, “Who’re you, the welcoming committee?”

Behind her, a familiar says, “hey, Raven, do you think we should push the bed under the window, or--”

Bellamy’s realizing that the car is a BMW.

And Clarke is on the porch, her mouth agape.

Raven’s eyes shift between the two of them.

Bellamy finds his voice: “You don’t want to put the bed too close to the window. You’ll freeze to death in the night.”

Raven doesn’t respond, looks at Clarke again, demands, “This is the guy, isn’t it?”

Clarke blushes deeply, the red in her cheeks visible even from several feet away. 

“You got Clarke in a lot of trouble,” Raven accuses, the set of her shoulders rigid. “Her mom--”

“Hey, don’t start, Raven. I got myself in that trouble.” Clarke smiles at Bellamy, something lovely, something real. “Glad to see you’re making good use of the coat.”

And he has been, so much so that the fresh scent of the other man’s cologne is gone, and the jacket smells of Bellamy’s soap and deodorant and the woodsmoke from the fireplace.

Raven stalks furiously past him on her way to the car: “Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open. Grab a box. And what the fuck kind of name is Bellamy, anyway?”

Clarke’s wearing a soft sweater in a pale ocean blue, her curls piled on top of her head in a messy bun. He’s pretty sure she’s completely shocked to see him, and maybe she never realized what a small town Polis is, or maybe she never had any intention of going anywhere other than Sinclair’s house today, but he thinks-- _thinks_ \--she’s happy. She gives his hand a quick squeeze as they brush together, jostling boxes and bags. “Don’t be scared of Raven. She’s just protective.”

“I’m protective because you need protecting.” Raven mutters. 

“I think that’s a matter of opinion,” Clarke replies lightly, kneeling over a box, head bent, and Bellamy doesn’t miss four perfect fingerprint bruises on her shoulder. He knows what that means--he’s seen it on Murphy a million times. An angry parent, hands on the shoulders, digging in, shaking.

So rich kids get beaten just like poor kids. 

But he’d like to kill the person who beat _this_ rich kid.

Clarke must feel his stare, because she plucks at her sweater, readjusting, covering the bruise. He looks away and catches Raven’s angry amber eyes. 

“Gonna grab another box,” Clarke slips out of the room and she’s barely gone when Raven hisses:

“That one was for taking $500 out of her trust fund without asking first. Luckily the slaps didn’t leave bruises, but then, Abby’s usually good about not leaving any marks on her face.”

Bellamy’s stomach sinks. 

“Hope you needed it as much as she thought you did.”

_Well, I fucking did_ , doesn’t seem like the right answer.

“I didn’t know,” he finally says unhappily.

“How could you have? You spent an hour together and yet somehow managed to convince her you were worth all of that. It’s interesting, though. I don’t see anything about you to convince me of the same.”

“I didn’t ask her to--”

“That’s the thing about Clarke, see, is that you’ll never have to ask. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to hang around here, right now, because she’ll only--”

“I didn’t even know she was here!” Bellamy explodes, interrupting her. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her again! But I live here. I’ve lived here my whole life. I work at the garage, and the diner, and I do repairs all over town. If she’s going to be hanging out with you, we’re going to be running into each other. So get over your weird idea that I took advantage of her on purpose--and I swear I did not--because this town is fucking small and the only people worth being friends with are already friends with me.”

“Hey guys, I found a puppy in the yard,” Clarke calls, and when she enters there’s a tall, skinny young man with pale olive skin and large soft eyes behind her. “Apparently, his name’s Jasper, and, let me get this straight: his best friend’s girlfriend, who is also his other best friend, and is named Harper, has sent him here to invite you to a bonfire.”

“Hey, Bell,” Jasper says sheepishly, and Bellamy snaps,

“Don’t call me that,” just like he always does, always has, since Octavia started talking, and the nickname first popped up.

He’ll probably be telling Jasper not to call him Bell until he dies. 

“Did my uncle put you up to this?” Raven is eyeing Jasper suspiciously. 

“Uh, no? Harper did. And she’s super bossy, and she’ll be mad if I don’t convince you to come, so please take pity on me. ”

“Who else will be there?” Raven’s look at Bellamy is anything but subtle.

“Well, I mean, Bellamy and Octavia…”

“Girlfriend?” Raven asks Bellamy sharply, and he would swear that Clarke is holding her breath a little.

“Sister. Sixteen.”

A knowing look crosses Clarke’s face.

“Me, Harper, Monty, uh, probably Miller, definitely Murphy. He’s bringing stuff for s'mores, Harper already asked him.”

Raven regards Jasper. He’s a fragile young man, silly and clumsy and incredibly intelligent. Bellamy knows that sometimes he’s falling to absolute pieces behind his smile. 

“Can I bring Clarke?”

This is not a good idea, probably. 

“Yeah, of course, the more the merrier!” 

This is definitely, for sure, not a good idea. It’s going to take Harper about four seconds to realize that Clarke is the “princess” who sent him the money, and while she hasn’t said anything to anyone about the incident, Bellamy himself will never hear the end of it. Like, ever.

And so far, it seems he’s only brought Clarke pain, and doesn’t really want to risk causing more, no matter how captivated he is by her alto voice and rosebud mouth, and whatever impulses pushed her to help him. 

Too late, though, she and Raven have accepted the invitation, and coerced Jasper into hiking up a ladder to hang fairy lights from the ceiling in Raven’s attic room. Sinclair finds the four of them there, the girls unfolding clothes, Bellamy holding the ladder while Jasper tacks a nail into the beam.

“As much as I hate to break up this little party, Bellamy, Fox is downstairs with that pitiful van again.”

“I gave her a jump this morning, she still having trouble with it?” Bellamy shifts his collar, takes his leave of the girls, offering to pick them up that night, which Clarke hastily agrees to before Raven can say a word. 

“Can you take her to work before you start on it? She’s freaking out a little.”

Bellamy could drive Fox to work in his sleep--probably has driven her to work in his sleep--she’s pounded on their door in the morning, frantic, several times in the past year. She always says the same thing when he drops her off: “Thanks, Bellamy. I can’t lose this job. The kids…”

And he thinks of Octavia every time, and says back, “Yeah, I know.”

Fox used to be so attractive, long brown hair, sweet smile, but the only smile she has anymore is the faded half-one she gives Octavia when she gets home every night. She bites her nails now, painfully thin with slumped shoulders. She had three babies in three years, back before her ex left town, but never got married. She asked for child support but can’t count on him for it, can only count on Bellamy with his rumpled hair driving her to work in his pajamas when her worthless old Caravan gives her trouble, and Octavia watching her little family from 3:30-6:30 every weekday. 

Fox used to watch Octavia sometimes, when their mom was off with men who didn’t love her, and Bellamy thinks they probably owe her. As long as they can help, they will, so he promises her, “I’ll try to have it ready by tomorrow so you won’t be late again.”

Fox straightens her clothes, the thin skirt with a hem that’s fallen out four times, a button down shirt washed to a faded pink. She says something different today: “You’re a good man, Bellamy Blake. Your mom would be proud.”

The topic of his mother takes everything from him. 

“To be proud, she’d have to be here. And she isn’t, is she?”

“She’ll come back.”

“I hope she doesn’t,” Bellamy lies, but he tries to feel like it’s true, deep down in his toes. “You’ll get a ride home?”

Fox looks back at him on her way into the building, and her face is pinched and ineffably sad.

Octavia is a little too excited about the bonfire. Since she’s three years younger than the rest, it’s still new to her to be included in such things, and the fact that she’s had to wrap up in nearly every piece of cold weather gear in the house has done nothing to dissuade her. She bounces happily in the front seat, informs him that Fox’s youngest is talking a blue streak now, that Atom passed her a note in history asking if she’s busy this weekend, “I told him I’m not, but he probably won’t even come over,” and then she quizzes him about Raven for the tenth time. 

“Pretty,” he says, “openly hostile, but maybe she’ll be nicer with some moonshine in her.”

“And her friend?”

“Seems sweet.”

“Getting information out of you is like pulling teeth,” she complains, “is she also pretty?”

Like a fairy. Or an angel. 

Or a princess.

“Mmhm. Blonde.”

Octavia doesn’t even wait at Sinclair’s, she jumps out of the truck and hammers on the door and while Bellamy stands uncomfortably on the stairs she barrels into a conversation with Raven Reyes like they’ve known each other their entire lives. When Clarke steps out into the porch light, pulling her toque over her curls, they immediately turn to her and enfold her in the conversation. 

Bellamy loves the way she smiles, open and real, like she’s happy to see people and she knows they’re happy to see her too. 

Clarke drifts away from the other girls on the way back to the truck, tucks her arm through Bellamy’s. “Your sister’s a sweetheart.”

She smells like clean laundry, a perfume that’s light, sweet, and expensive.

“Don’t be fooled. Octavia’s a terror.”

“So’s Raven. This town’s in for trouble.”

Bellamy glances at Raven. “You’ve been friends for a long time?”

Clarke laughs a little, “yeah, um, it’s kind of a funny story. We had the same boyfriend in third grade. Ditched the boy, kept each other.”

“Now she’s moving away? That sucks for you two.” 

Clarke’s smile slips. “It’s not far. We’ll see each other all the time. I’ll drive here every day if I have to.”

“Your mom won’t care that you’re spending all your time around here? Not exactly a place full of stunning views and welcoming people.”

“It takes a lot for my mom to notice what I’m doing.” 

_What happens when she does, though?_ Bellamy doesn’t want to find out.

Raven and Octavia are in the truck, Clarke’s got her hand on the door, when he says quietly, “Look, Clarke, about the money--”

“I don’t want to talk about the money.” Now her face doesn’t have a trace of good humor. 

“But Raven said--”

“Please, Bellamy. Don’t bring it up again.”

He thinks of the four perfect green bruises on her shoulder, gives her a quick nod.

The fire is raging, and Murphy is pelting Harper with marshmallows when they pull up. Bellamy doesn’t miss the quick, appreciative glance Murphy gives Raven. He gets it; Raven’s gorgeous, all shiny chestnut hair and long eyelashes. But Bellamy’s eyes are only for Clarke, golden curls lit up by firelight, the flames heating up her cheeks and turning them pink. She takes off her hat, puts in on Octavia’s head, throws down a little moonshine and then coughs dramatically. 

It’s funny, he’d almost hoped his friends wouldn’t like her. Snotty Arkadia girl in a $500 parka, he thought maybe that was all they’d see. Then she wouldn’t stay, wouldn’t get in trouble, wouldn’t get hurt again. Or, at least not because of him. But, no, Harper’s been laughing all night, Monty had a drunken shouting match with her over whether or not green apple Jolly Ranchers were valid as a favorite candy, and even Murphy slung an arm around her neck and told her she had pretty hair. 

Bellamy's pretty sure Clarke is flirting with him, the way she stands close, keeps tangling their fingers together, giving him little looks, rolling her mouth around the double-L in his name.

Bellamy’s never been in love. He likes girls just fine, and they like him too. He lost his virginity in a fairly unspectacular way to Echo, who lived in the house on the corner for most of his childhood. She was beautiful and they had fun together, but when she moved to Troit a few years later he didn’t feel a particular loss. Most of the time he works too much to pursue anyone, and anyway, he knows everyone and none of them have caught his eye. 

And no one has ever given him the catch-flip-hitch that his heart does when Clarke flashes that dimple in her cheek. 

So when she pushes up to him near the end of the party, curls her fingers around the fabric of his coat and says, “I’m glad I’m here,” he can’t help but grin.

“I’m glad you’re here, too.”

“Yeah?” She steps around a tree, dragging him along with her. “Something I’ve been thinking about since I met you, Bellamy?”

“And what’s that?” He’s lightly buzzed, trying to sober up since he’s responsible for driving the girls home. Clarke’s eyes are a little hazy but she’s sharp--she was just speaking French to Jasper--but her voice is rising at the end of each word, just a touch. 

She tugs at his collar, pulling him down to meet her, and the front of her body curves against his. “Nothing important,” she murmurs, right up next to his mouth. “Only this.”

And she kisses him.

This is trouble.

But that doesn’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I'm going to be alternating this one with Darling. Can't help it--the bleak winter weather has me in such a mood to write about shitty small towns and sad families..
> 
> Chapter title from A Long December by Counting Crows, another sad song set during the winter!
> 
> I grew up in a small town and I assure you that some of the smaller details in this fic that show what it means to be part of a tightly knit community are 100% true to life. I added some original characters to help develop the small town atmosphere in the story, but they are not at the forefront in any way. 
> 
> Coming up: Raven brings trouble to town, Clarke struggles to strike the right note when trying to help Octavia.


	3. Took the High Road Once (it was lonely)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get to know Clarke a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who doesn't know, I'm from Texas and we've been having horrible weather as well as massive power and water outages. Our grocery stores aren't getting trucks, nothing's delivering, people are starving and freezing in their houses. 
> 
> I just went three days without power. Our water is now shut off. We don't have a lick of food but our neighbors brought us dinner last night, and we are honestly just grateful that the power's on again. 
> 
> So! After spending three days in super low temperatures with no power or heat and winter depression setting in hardcore, I felt WAY more inspired to add the next chapter in this bleak winter saga than I did to write the next chapter in sunny California summer "darling." Promise to get back to that soon. Maybe later today. But for right now let's look at this story from Clarke's perspective!
> 
> CW: Intense discussion of child abuse. This is not the fic for you if you can't handle this content. (And I totally understand if you can't!)

Bellamy is golden, and that’s what caught Clarke’s attention in the first place. His skin radiates warmth, his eyes a deep, ambered brown. His hair is pitch-colored, chaotic waves that curl across his forehead, and tiny freckles spatter his nose and cheeks. 

Clarke didn’t miss his frayed hoodie, cargo pants nearly worn through the knees, and she didn’t miss Russ clocking them too. Not many kids from Polis come to Arkadia, to Clarke the smaller town nearly seems like a prison, or perhaps a bog that sucks its teenagers down and dry, but she has seen a sketchy, slim boy with heavily lidded eyes from time to time, and knows he’s the reason that the liquor store over on Mecha Road started putting sensors on their wine bottles. 

She’s tried to run interference for that boy before, causing a bit of chaos when she sees him around, but he’s always too intent on his prize to notice. There was nothing to her attempts when it came to him--and last night she learned his name was Murphy--Clarke just likes a bit of trouble from time to time, she’s a restless soul, and the kind of girl who appreciates people in rough situations coming into a bit of luck. 

It was different when she saw Bellamy, with his star-shaped freckles and soft lips. Entirely different. The feeling in her gut nearly propelled her toward him, and her cynical eye on Russ understood the situation in a flash: This boy is stealing, and the air of desperation on him is palpable. She never thought about Murphy needing the things he stole, she merely considered that he probably deserved something nice in his life, and therefore was ready to do what she could. But this boy, this golden boy--frustration and fear and loyalty and duty were dripping from him. 

Clarke would have done a lot to help him. Even risk her mom finding out, even risk her grandfather’s wrath, and eventually that was exactly what she did.

The beating wasn’t that bad, compared to others. Only a few bruises, this time. It could have been worse. She’s had worse, much, much worse, and when she saw Bellamy’s pleased face in the car, as she passed over the milk, she was willing to go back there, to cracked ribs, to calling out of school, to tough-as-nails Raven actually sobbing as she wound an ace bandage around Clarke’s ribs and used steri-strips to bind her cheek and lip back together. 

For all that Bellamy is golden, Clarke is silver, she is ice. She can make the hard decisions and she knew long before she gave him her father’s coat that she would have to tell him not to come back to Arkadia. Bellamy is beautiful, Bellamy is noticeable, and if Bellamy gets caught, he’s fucked. So she let him go, like a butterfly, like the loveliest, most rare bird, and she thought that she would just carry the memory of his lopsided grin in her heart forever. 

But some scheme of Raven’s skidded sideways, the aunt she’d lived with for ages threw her hands in the air and gave up on her sharp-tongued, brilliant niece, and after digging through the family tree produced some sort of second uncle twice removed with a charitable heart in Polis, twenty miles west, and while Clarke would have followed her friend into hell if she needed to, there was a bit of an incentive, here. Raven would make friends, despite her caustic tongue, and through some discreet inquiry Clarke would be able to hunt down Bellamy. (Despite Raven’s protests and warnings and “you know your mom’s gonna…” ultimatums.)

Neither Clarke nor Raven realized that Bellamy worked at Sinclair’s Garage. Neither of them were expecting to find him in the driveway at eight in the morning. But dear god, Clarke could have dropped on her knees and thanked some kind of saint when she saw him tall and healthy and wearing her dad’s coat with all the assurance of a supermodel. Raven was furious, of course, and who knows what she’d said to him when Clarke slipped away out of embarrassment when he saw her bruises, but Clarke more than made up for it at the bonfire, kissing him for heaven knows how long, and while it broke her heart to leave Polis the next morning, she knew she’d be back. 

And Clarke had a new problem to work on when she met Octavia. The younger girl explained Bellamy’s desperation, his lack of a jacket (and the old one he’d given his sister was far too big on her tiny frame) and the Lucky Charms, and she had Bellamy’s golden aura, brilliant smile, and dark hair--though hers was sleek and straight. Clarke would kill for hair like that, or Raven’s chestnut waves, but instead she has the hardship of finger-combing messy curls into some sort of style every day. Lots of braids and buns, because young as she is Clarke can be quite serious, and wants her hair out of her face so she can conduct her business. 

Like helping Bellamy Blake commit petty larceny. 

Octavia is too thin, like her older brother, and she needs a real coat that actually fits her, and jeans that aren’t clearly a hand-me-down from someone--maybe Bellamy’s friend Harper--who is pretty but has an entirely different figure from the athletic looking Octavia, and whose clothes would never suit the younger girl. And given that Octavia had worn socks on her hands the night of the bonfire, and a beanie she’d said Bellamy’s friend Miller left at the house, and a scarf that was way more fashion wear than winter wear…

Clarke laid the foundation: she informed both Bellamy and Raven that her mother had made her swear to clean out her closet. In front of Bellamy, she suggested to Raven that she would bring her first choice. They briefly discussed that Clarke has outgrown her favorite jeans (she has not) the parka she got last year for skiing (also untrue) and an assortment of tops and sweaters. Raven made a bit of a fuss about Clarke’s style being different, but promised to look through the bags. Clarke will, of course, take the rest to Octavia, and pray that the younger girl doesn’t feel too prideful to take it. Clarke is pretty sure that she and Octavia are mostly the same size and shape (though Raven’s clothes would fit Octavia better, Raven is no rich girl with extra parkas lying around) and that the things she brings will be nicer than anything Octavia’s ever had. The temptation should be enough to override her pride. 

Well, Clarke hopes, as she sorts through her closet with an eye toward what will suit the younger girl best.

Clarke’s always been two things, as she sees it: pale, and rich. Her skin is ivory, her veins delicate and blue just beneath the surface. Bruises show in rich reds, purples, and greens, scars are a near-metallic white after they heal. She’s still got a hot pink streak, long and ugly, across her side: her grandfather miscalculated with a belt and left a nasty, five-inch wound with his buckle. It needed stitches, Clarke thinks, but with Abby at the hospital she couldn’t go there, and if she’d had Raven drive her into the city she’s sure they would have called her mom. Instead they’d used a pack of steri-strips once again and some leftover antibiotics, and it’s ugly but it’ll heal. 

Clarke’s grandfather, Dante Wallace, is the mayor of Arkadia. He also has family money, coming down for generations, and Clarke is easily the richest person any of her friends will ever know, money from both sides of the family, Jake leaving her everything in a trust fund when he died.

He must have known something, Jake Griffin, because in five months when Clarke turns eighteen, she will come into an absolutely unbelievable amount of money, and she can leave Arkadia and never get the belt again. She’s going to the best college she can get into, she’s running as far as she can go. 

And she’s hoping to take Raven with her, but that’s of course, up to her fiery bestie, who often seems to have plans of her own. 

Clarke hears Abby come in downstairs. She’s diagnosed her mother with a million different psychiatric issues over the past six months, but given up on pinpointing it. She just knows that after her mother hits her, she’s often kind and spoils Clarke for weeks. And just as she often does during the good times, she drifts into Clarke’s room and asks, sweet as pie, “What’re you doing, honey?”

Clarke sticks to her story: “Going through some things I outgrew, to give to Raven.”

“Oh, that’s kind of you.” Abby’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Well, if you’re outgrowing things, we should go into the city, hit up the mall. Have a girls’ day, run into the Lucky store?”

“Sure Mom, that sounds awesome. I could definitely use new jeans.”

All of this is ridiculous. If Abby was really looking at Clarke, she’d see that her daughter has lost weight since her father died. Clarke’s been relying on the new styles of boyfriend and stovepipe jeans to cover up her suddenly slimmer self, hoping her sweaters don’t look too baggy.

“Lovely,” Abby chirps. “Can’t wait.” 

She swans out of Clarke’s room as if she’s done her good deed for the day. Clarke shudders, tears through the rest of the clothes, quietly gets dressed as fast as she can and ducks out the door while her mother is “resting” (has taken multiple narcotics and fallen into a stupor) in the upstairs master bedroom. 

Things weren’t always so bad; Jake was an equalizing force in the house. He would make things right when Abby occasionally slapped Clarke, he once fisted his hands in her grandfather’s shirt when Dante threatened to whip Clarke. “Never touch my daughter,” Jake had said. “You’ll whip her over my dead body,” he’d added. 

In the end, that was exactly what had happened. 

Fuck it: it’s Saturday. Clarke doesn’t know where Bellamy is, but is willing to bet Octavia’s at home. The day is nasty, a wintry mix falling, ice, rain, and snow straight down your collar. A perfect day to gift someone a parka. Sinclair told her where the Blakes live, and as Clarke navigates her car down the rutty road she notes that Bellamy’s truck isn’t out front. She gathers the duffel bag, the garment bag with the parka, and knocks on the door with her hands full. 

Octavia peeks through the curtain, then throws the door open. There’s only a trace of suspicion in her eyes, she immediately exclaims, “Clarke, what’re you doing here?!” as she opens the door wide enough for Clarke to enter. 

The house is mostly spotless, which is somehow surprising to Clarke. She was expecting two young people living together to have a messy space, maybe hastily thrown together if friends were coming over. But instead it’s neat and clean, with just Octavia’s books and homework spread across the coffee table near the fireplace. 

Clarke rehearses the story in her head, a huge smile on her face, drops the bags. Starts casually: “My mom made me clean out my closet this morning, and I brought these things for Raven, but she doesn’t want any of them. You’re the only other person I could think of who might like them, and would be the right size. Wanna look at what I’m trying to get rid of?”

Octavia hesitates for a second, then nods. Clarke unzips the garment bag with the parka. In Arkadia it’s the style to leave your ski tags on the zipper of your jacket. Clarke had carefully peeled them off, cleaned off the sticker residue with alcohol. 

“I can’t zip this damn thing over my chest,” she tells Octavia, an outright lie. “And my jeans won’t pull up over my ass,” as she pulls out several pairs of expensive denim. 

Octavia is convinced in no time, her eyes lighting up as the parka zips easily over her chest. The bright blue parka looks perfect on her, and Clarke fishes out the scarf she bought to match it...and the mittens...and the hat. “It all goes together, and doesn’t coordinate with my other coat.”

This is a lie that she hopes Octavia doesn’t really notice, even though Clarke’s coat--which she is wearing--is silver. 

Octavia fingers the Lucky Brand insignia on the jeans, thrilled, and Clarke feels a disturbance at her back. She half-turns to find Bellamy standing a few feet behind her, his hair wet, jacket soaked. He closes the door with purpose, quietly furious. 

Clarke believes in lies, even for people she really likes. Lies of expediency, lies of convenience. Lies that are in people’s best interest. So she repeats her story, reminds Bellamy that she mentioned it when she saw him last. He nearly looks right through her when she speaks, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Clarke watches him have a wordless conversation with Octavia. His eyes are dark and angry, it’s clear he wants Octavia to give the things back. Octavia’s eyes are bright, hopeful, beseeching, and Bellamy gives in, stomping to the kitchen in a full-on snit, and Clarke smiles at Octavia reassuringly and then follows Bellamy, ready for the fight.

Clarke can fight with anyone, would fight with anyone to keep that bright look in Octavia Blake’s eyes, even her golden brother, even the guy who kisses like an angel, whose smile breaks her heart in twenty-five pieces. 

Bellamy opens the fridge and then slams it shut, sheds the jacket and then wraps his fingers around the top of the chair, knuckles turning white. He finally speaks, voice low. “We’re not your fucking charity cases, Clarke.”

Clarke tries to breathe. She wants to fight but she also wants to set Bellamy at ease, can’t figure out how to do both. “I don’t see you as charity cases. Your sister needs clothes, and I needed to clean out my closet. She’s thrilled. Your little temper tantrum here is taking some of that excitement away, and frankly I don’t appreciate it.”

“The money--” he begins, and she sees red.

“Bellamy, if you bring up that money again, I’m going to lose my temper with you. It was a one time thing. I thought I wouldn’t see you again. You needed--I couldn’t stomach the thought--” Clarke breathes in, tries to make sense of her wild thoughts. “I thought that I’d sent you away and you were out of my reach. I wanted to help beyond the stupid--beyond the milk--and I was hoping I could make up for the fact that I couldn’t help more, at least a little. I knew you wouldn’t be able to give it back.”

Bellamy’s staring like she’s speaking Greek. 

“My father taught me that if you can help, you do. Period. That’s my code, that’s something more important to me than air and water. So don’t you dare stand there too prideful to let your teenage sister have new things, and don’t you dare ever throw that money in my face again. Don’t ever--ever--tell anyone I gave it to you, and the subject is fucking closed.” 

Bellamy blinks at her; it’s clear people don’t normally speak to him in such a manner. He bites his lip, making a decision--about Clarke, about generosity, about kindness. 

Just when Clarke’s sure he’s going to kick her out of the house and throw the clothes after her, he crosses the kitchen in four quick strides, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her lips softly. 

His hands are cold, but his mouth is warm, and Clarke nearly falls into him. He’s a magnet, she’s drawn to his body, up on her toes to put her arms around his shoulders. 

She barely knows the Blakes, but it’s taken less than a month for her to decide that she’d do anything for them, take a beating for them, lie for them, kill for them. 

She’s already done the first two.

Soon enough she’ll do the third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Rhett Miller's song Total Disaster. I looooooved Rhett Miller back in the olden days of the late nineties, early aughties, but this more recent song by him has a perfect first line for this chapter. 
> 
> I loved taking a look at this from Clarke's perspective and seeing a little more about her. In her own way she's just as prideful as Bellamy! 
> 
> The chapters will go back and forth between characters, but not in an even, alternating way. Each character will come in when they are needed.


	4. Looking for Patterns in Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which next steps are taken, and I come just short of smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it IS still very cold outside, in case this new chapter isn't enough indication. Still have power, still no water. If you're in The South and struggling with the same things, I love you, stay warm. If you're in Austin and I might be able to help, DM me on tumblr at frecklesandfanfics. 
> 
> Some mention of child abuse in this chapter, not as much as last. 
> 
> We're going to talk about Valentine's Day and the back half of this chapter is entirely super light smut. Forgive me.

Bellamy’s no expert on people, but he’s pretty sure something’s hinky with Raven Reyes. 

He wouldn’t say anything about it to Clarke--at least, not right now--but Raven’s reading strangely. She’s giving off something nervous, something worried. Not in the way Bellamy does when there’s not enough money for groceries or bills, but rather in the way that you’ve done something far stupider than normal and your concerns go beyond those of mere mortals. 

And the thing is, he likes Raven. She makes him laugh all day at the garage. She’s a brilliant mechanic, a young woman who reads books about engineering for fun. He would generally think that she’s going somewhere, but instead he thinks she’s already been somewhere, and wrapped somewhere around her shoulders, and is bringing it to Polis. 

And Polis, for all the problems it already has, is a fairly safe little town, and Bellamy would prefer that the sassy, funny, suspicious Raven doesn’t change that. There’s a way she freezes sometimes, when an unfamiliar car cruises by, that scares him. 

And, to make a bewildering and difficult situation worse, she took Murphy home after the bonfire. Bellamy’s already heard about it, how she snuck Murphy up the back stairs and locked her bedroom door. She let down her ponytail and took off her shirt, and they had a lovely time.

Then again.

Then again.

Bellamy wants to be happy for Murphy, wants to be glad that he’s broken away from Fox, but he knows the truth: Murphy is fragile under his tough veneer. He’s been beaten so many times he’s damn near broken, and he cannot take a young woman like Raven using him, hurting him. It’s this part that Bellamy does want to tell Clarke, does want to share with her, because he thinks that Clarke might understand, might intervene. 

Maybe he’s putting too much faith in Clarke, and maybe he should stop doing that, but she’s got such an undercurrent of gentleness, of kindness. She treats his sister as if it’s a joy to know the younger girl, and Bellamy often comes home from work to find them curled up on the couch after school, or their heads bent together over homework, or even sometimes in the kitchen cooking dinner, giggling over recipes. Sometimes Harper is perched on the counter indicating the correct amount of time to bake the cornbread or boil the rice, and that warms Bellamy’s heart even further. 

It’s been a month since Raven moved to Polis, and the further Bellamy goes with Clarke, the more he’s sure of her, the more he’s suspicious of Raven, the more her every motion seems stilted and worrisome, the more he longs to pull Murphy back and beg his friend not to fall in love. 

How hypocritical, how unfair, when Bellamy knows that just as Clarke is the first good thing to happen to him in years, Raven is the first good thing for Murphy. 

Octavia is suspiciously missing on Valentine’s Day. Clarke, stirring at a pot of carefully-constructed carbonara, says that Octavia is spending the night at Jasper’s. Clarke has not discussed this stupid, stressful holiday, has not mentioned gifts or chocolates, has acted as if expectations are nonexistent, and Bellamy is in fact surprised to see her in his kitchen. She looks casual as can be, in jeans and a red sweater, her hair swept half-back with a clip, but she maneuvers a pan of brownies out of the oven and serves the pasta with a dramatic flair, even though it’s on Bellamy’s normal cracked plates. 

And Bellamy, still wearing his coveralls from Sinclair’s Garage, still with grease under his nails, stands awkwardly in his own kitchen, feeling a little shocked and a lot too grimy for a Valentine’s Day meal with anyone, let alone Clarke. 

There’s a tote bag hanging from the doorknob, and Clarke produces a bottle of Pinot Grigio and as she rummages in the cupboards, looking for a pair of wineglasses, she glances back at him over her shoulder and asks, “Is this not okay?”

He finds a smile for her, a real one, the kind he manages to uncover for Octavia on her worst days, and replies, “No, it’s...amazing. But I’m a wreck from work, and I had no idea you’d be here.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that.” Clarke uncovers a wine opener, pops the bottle expertly. “Well, go take a shower. We can warm this back up in the microwave.”

Bellamy nods, begins to move past her in the tiny room, but when he notices her stiff shoulders he can see how suddenly insecure he’s made her, so he bumps her hip with his until she turns to look up into his face. His fingers are dirty, he ghosts them over her chin, kisses her gently. “This is really nice. Beyond anything I was expecting. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll do it properly.”

He showers quickly, scrubs his hands with mechanic’s soap, digs out cologne and sprays it on even though his clothes aren’t special and his hair’s messy. He can hear the microwave ding as he heads back down the hallway, and Clarke is placing the plates back on the table like no time has passed. He bends over her, kisses the nape of her neck, her shoulder. 

God, does he love the way her lips curve when she’s happy with him. “You smell good,” she says quietly, spins, returns the kisses in exactly the same spot. There’s a tension singing from her body tonight, and Bellamy can’t place it. Before he can even attempt to find the source, she’s stepped back and pulled their chairs out. “This isn’t my first time making carbonara, but I’m not sure that it’s very good.”

“I have faith in you,” Bellamy tells her, and he finds that he does, and realizes suddenly that he will talk to her about Murphy and Raven tonight, even though it’s not romantic. 

The food is actually excellent, and after devouring most of his plate, Bellamy is lost in thoughts about Murphy, is pushing around the last few noodles, while Clarke prattles about some sort of senior-year tradition to give your friends roses on Valentine’s Day. He doesn’t notice when she grows quiet until she places her hand over his, stilling the motion of his fork. “Bellamy, what’s wrong?”

“Raven and Murphy kind of...have a thing happening,” he begins. 

There’s a sudden stop to everything he’s been getting from Clarke all night. She puts her fork down, her eyes are impossible to read. She tucks her hands under her thighs and tilts her head at Bellamy. “Do they?” she asks, her tone neutral. “Raven hasn’t said, but sometimes she can be really closed-mouth about relationships.”

Bellamy can’t understand the amount of static coming off Clarke’s posture. “It’s just that…you know, Murphy and I have been friends since we were little kids. And he’s not what you think, he’s not tough, that whole smart-ass posturing is just an act.”

“You don’t really know what I think,” Clarke points out, and now there’s something dangerous in her voice. 

“He’s fragile,” Bellamy insists. “And I can’t stand to think that Raven might…”

“What? Love him and leave him? God, you’re being so dramatic right now.”

“I’m not being dramatic. There’s something off about her. She’s--do you know if she’s tied up in--?”

Clarke rises from the table sharply, grabs the plates, stubbornness written all over her face. 

Bellamy suddenly realizes that if she did know Raven’s secrets, she’d no sooner tell Bellamy than she’d have expected a bouquet of flowers and a diamond necklace today. 

“Whatever you’re thinking about Raven, how she might treat Murphy, you’re wrong. She’s not that kind of person. She doesn’t use people, and she most especially wouldn’t use him.” 

“Why not him, particularly?” Bellamy’s standing now, too, and he knows he has no right to demand answers from Clarke, who is leaning over the sink with a washcloth, but she looks back at him and her face isn’t impassive anymore, she looks nearly on the verge of tears. 

“Because she can see what I can see--that he’s...wounded.”

The word hurts Bellamy’s chest, makes his stomach coil. He can’t argue that it applies, can’t count the amount of times Murphy collapsed on the couch with black eyes and bloody noses, remembers occasions when he crumpled into Octavia’s bed with cracked ribs and wet eyes. _I don’t know why he does this_ , Murphy would gasp, _I don’t know why I don’t know why_ ... 

It’s only that Bellamy doesn’t want to envision his friend that way.

It’s only that Clarke is so close to being the same. 

Bellamy comes behind her at the sink, wraps his arms around her waist, slides a hand under her sweater and flattens his palm against her warm stomach. “I’m sorry, I worry,” he mumbles roughly into her ear. 

Her response is a quiet sigh, compassion and exhaustion mingled: “I know. You want to take care of them. I lo--” she cuts it off, quick and vicious, “I really admire that about you.”

Bellamy is a bit frozen, Clarke’s words easily interpreted, he decides to let it go for now. Slides his other hand under her sweater, cradles her. “Hey,” he says, voice still a little rough, tone a little begging, “leave the dishes. This day’s supposed to be romantic or something, right?” 

He smiles against her cheek, and she smiles back. “Brownies?” she suggests, “Octavia swore they were your favorite.”

Bellamy lets Clarke turn with the brownie pan in her hand, takes it from her, places it on the counter, then spans her hips with his hands and places her on the counter, too. She says his name a little breathlessly, the tension back, Bellamy leans against the space between her legs and allows himself to take time like never before, placing tiny, delicate kisses across her collarbone and up her throat, over her jaw and towards her mouth. “This okay?” He asks, and there’s something to her laugh that sends a clear message. 

“When I’m with you, it’s all okay,” and with those surprising words, she peels her sweater off.

Clarke’s bra is maybe the most expensive single piece of clothing Bellamy’s ever seen, a beautifully constructed thing of delicate lace and soft silk, sky blue, her best color. When she hops down and steps carefully out of her jeans, and the matching panties are revealed, he’s damn near speechless. All of her ivory skin is on display, he wonders how much of it he can just touch and absorb before this continues. 

Clarke’s impatient, though, tugs at his tee shirt, says urgently, “ _Bellamy_.”

A reckless, stupid grin finds its way to his face. “Feeling chilly, Princess?”

“I just think it’s only fair that if I’m most of the way undressed, you should be too.”

“I mean...you’re the one who decided to shed your clothes…” 

“I can get dressed again,” and there’s a tease to her voice, but he wouldn’t put it past her.

Bellamy trails a finger over her shoulder, down her arm. “Let’s go to my room,” he offers, taking her hand, and leaving her outfit right there in the middle of the kitchen, she follows him down the hall. 

He wishes he was laying Clarke down in satin sheets, thinks she deserves the kind of bed that probably costs more than his rent. Instead she’s on display in the middle of his worn comforter, and yet somehow she still retains an air of royalty. 

Bellamy spots the long, ragged pink scar on her ribs as he’s taking off his clothes, and as he climbs onto the bed he traces just under it. “Does it hurt? Should I avoid it?” He quizzes, and pretends he doesn’t notice the sudden shame in Clarke’s eyes. 

She turns her face to the ceiling, shaking her head. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Just ignore it.”

“I can’t ignore anything about you,” he whispers, taking in her breasts, her thighs, the perfect dip of her hipbones. “You’re doing something to me, Princess…”

Clarke brushes her thumb across his bottom lip, smiles. “Back atcha,” she says, and as it has so many times before, her whole body moves towards him.

This time, only, they’re mostly naked, and then they are completely naked. 

This time, it ends with them tangled and torn, sighing and whimpering, a scream that she nearly bites back rising in Clarke’s throat until Bellamy smothers it with his kiss.

This time is the first time, but as Clarke lays in the protective curve of Bellamy’s arm afterward, he knows it isn’t the last, and they have moved on to something more special.

To something more frightening. 

To something that feels altogether more important, more lasting.

But Bellamy knows he can’t keep Clarke, she is a wild thing, and she doesn’t belong to him.

He’s only breaking his own heart, but he can’t make himself let this go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Lightness" by Death Cab. 
> 
> Bellamy trying to read Clarke's body language when he doesn't know a single other person anything like her is hilarious to me. I also love how he's immediately so sure Raven is sus. My boy has a finely tuned bullshit meter.
> 
> Murphy is a heartbreaker of a character in this story, but God, do I love him. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is a bit short, but no worries we're directly into the action of Chapter 5 very soon.


	5. Talented at Breathing (especially exhaling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people break and are broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Pretty intense after-effects of abuse. Descriptions of injuries in detail. 
> 
> I'm so, so sorry, I know the chapter previous was pretty cute, but uh...

The beginning of March, and Clarke’s fairly sure she’s in over her head. 

There’s Raven first, carrying something too heavy to share, acting wide-eyed and scared for no reason that Clarke can understand, and refusing to tell her the truth for the first time in their years of friendship.

Bellamy next, stirring up something in Clarke’s heart that’s entirely new and feels nearly unfair. She finds herself tripping over her language, avoiding the stupid L-word, even though every time he’s giving her those eyes, that smile, she just wants to collide into him and promise things she’s not sure she should. 

But then there’s Octavia, who is so precious, so warm, and deserves so much more than this pokey, crappy town. They have developed a friendship that keeps Clarke driving to Polis straight after school every day, hauling her laptop and her books, breezing in and out of her own home occasionally with a “going to Raven’s” and marveling a bit over the fact that her mom hasn’t said a word once. 

It’s cold at the Blake place, but when Clarke is wrapped up in Bellamy’s bed at night, matching her breath to his, she doesn’t feel it. 

In fact, when he comes home from work and finds Clarke on the couch with his sister, watching bullshit TV and laughing, the smile he gives them is better than any fireplace. 

Somewhere, March means the beginning of Spring, but in this state it only means another round of snowstorms, cold houses and pink noses, and people cracking their elbows on ice. Clarke can’t think of the last time she didn’t have to wear snowboots, two pairs of socks, layers of sweaters and her winter coat, and as she’s stomping gray slush off of her soles at the Blakes’ house on a Friday night, she remembers absently that she’s supposed to be at a dance. Spring Fling or something. Serving drinks. 

But Bellamy doesn’t have work tonight, and it just seems so much more important to sit between him and Octavia, arguing about who might win at Scrabble but all three of them too lazy to pull out the game. 

(Clarke. Clarke would win.)

It’s also too cold for the pink floral confection she bought to wear to the dance, though maybe in the summer she’ll show it to Bellamy. 

Clarke brought groceries for the weekend, a case of beer she had a friend obtain for her in Arkadia, and she stocks the fridge and cabinets without interrupting Bellamy and Octavia, who seem to be having one of those intense Blake Sibling Arguments they’re occasionally fond of. It’s already getting dark, and instead of beer she’d rather have something warm, but she pulls a bottle out for Bellamy anyway, before finding two mugs and the canister of hot chocolate. Voices are getting loud in the living room as she heats the milk, and she usually doesn’t interfere with their fights but is starting to wonder how long she should hide in the kitchen.

She hears Bellamy explode, “You’re not GOING!”

Then Octavia screams back, “You are NOT my father, Bellamy!”

“Obviously not! I actually stuck around!”

There's a sudden silence. Clarke closes her eyes. Bellamy gives a frustrated groan: “I’m sorry, O, I didn’t mean that…”

Octavia stomps through the house and slams her bedroom door. Bellamy sinks into the couch’s protesting cushions. 

Clarke leaves the mugs, the beer, the milk, to go to him. He’s stiff all over, wracked with guilt, hands in his hair. “Hey,” she says, pulling at his arm, “hey, it’s alright.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “I don’t really deserve to feel better,” he mumbles at her. “Don’t be nice to me.”

Clarke curls up on her knees, lifting herself tall enough to put her arms around his shoulders and enfold him. “You’re trying to take care of your sister. It was a fight that got out of hand. Not worth guilt-tripping yourself.” 

It hurts her heart when he sighs and slumps against her. “When my mom first left, I never dreamed I’d still be trying to raise Octavia all this time later.”

They’ve only talked about his mom a bit--Clarke knows the woman left with a man one night when Bellamy was nearly sixteen and never came back. Bellamy’s never heard from her, Octavia never mentions her, and Sinclair said once that Aurora Blake should be ashamed of herself. That’s all Clarke knows.

Everyone seems to think she’s still alive, however dark a place Clarke’s mind went with the situation. But maybe Octavia and Bellamy need to believe that she left them on purpose, because thinking she is dead would hurt more.

Clarke feels the opposite way, but who is she to judge their coping methods?

“You’ve done a good job,” Clarke tells Bellamy, running her fingers through his hair. “She’s a great girl. She’s just...sixteen. And that’s a hard age.”

His shoulder is digging into Clarke’s breast bone, but she won’t give up his sudden vulnerability for anything. She drags her hand down his back, rubbing it like her father used to when she cried. “You’re in a tough position, but you’re handling it with grace.” 

His bitter laugh and sorrowful voice are more than she can take: “I’m not handling it. I’m just...going to bed at night praying the next day isn’t worse. Every day. For years. Do you know what it’s like to feel that way?” 

_Only every day since my dad died_ , she thinks. 

_Or at least, every day until I saw you._

Clarke can’t start crying. She’s the strong one right now, she’s the rock. But she still admits the truth. “I do.”

Bellamy shifts, nestles his face near her neck, wraps his arms around her waist. She thinks his eyelashes are wet. “You’re changing things for me,” he whispers against her collarbone, “but what’ll happen when you’re gone?”

A promise she shouldn’t make, one she can’t possibly keep, but Clarke believes in lies. “I won’t be gone until you don’t need me anymore.”

She can feel his jaw tic. “Don’t be a liar, Clarke. I can’t take lies. Not from you.”

“Then let’s leave the question of what’ll happen when I’m gone until I’m actually leaving.”

_August_ , she thinks with a pang, _let’s worry about it in August_. 

August is not as far away as she wants it to be. 

Bellamy’s holding her so tightly it nearly hurts, when he speaks she can feel his breath against her chest. She strokes his cheekbone with soft fingers, tries to keep her own breath steady, tries to convince him to be calm without much more than air. It’s dark outside now, and she needs to check on Octavia, needs to make sure the younger girl didn’t climb out her window, like Clarke would have. 

She says cajolingly, “I brought you beer.”

Bellamy’s phone rings.

Octavia bursts out of her room. “Bell,” she says urgently, “Bellamy, the garage is on fire.”

Bellamy swipes his phone, says, “Sinclair?” and is already grabbing his coat. Clarke’s open-mouthed, steps back towards Octavia and grabs her hand. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he tells the other man, and to Clarke and Octavia his voice is puzzled when he adds, “someone _set it_ on fire. Clarke, you’re--staying here?” she nods, pulling Octavia closer. 

“Bellamy, arson?”

“Nothing like that has ever happened here, though!” Octavia protests, rubbing her arms. 

He turns to her, looking at them, suddenly worried. “The rifle is under the couch,” he reminds Octavia. “If you...just call me. Don’t let anyone in.”

When he leaves Clarke stands in the living room for a moment, staring at Octavia, who still looks bewildered. She repeats her brother’s words: “Set it on fire? Sinclair is the most well-liked person in town. I just don’t get it.”

And Clarke, whose mind is spinning along a street she doesn’t want it to go down, shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says finally, puzzled, grabbing her phone and texting Raven, “I...uh...hopefully Bellamy will know more when he comes home.”

_Where are you?_ The text says. _Are you okay?_ Then, finally, frustrated: _Rae, what the hell is going on?_

There is a feeling to the house now, cold, exposed. When Clarke finally retreats to the couch, Octavia crawls nearly into her lap. 

For the second time that night, she pulls a Blake into her arms. “We’re fine,” she tells Octavia. “I can use a rifle, can you?”

Octavia’s clearly offended. “Of course I can. I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Clarke scoffs, moving to turn on the TV, but a pounding at the door has her jumping to her feet, the remote skittering across the coffee table, Octavia pressing a hand to her mouth. Clarke’s half across the living room before Octavia calls, 

“Wait, Bellamy said not to let anyone in!”

Behind the door, a pained voice pleads, “Open the door, ‘tavia.”

Clarke knows that voice, swings the hinges, and Murphy stumbles straight into her, barely upright. Hot liquid streams down her shirt, she sways trying to take his weight. “Octavia--a dish towel, please? C’mere,” she says soothingly to Murphy, steering him towards the couch, “c’mere, I’ll get you fixed up.”

Murphy’s wrecked, bleeding from his mouth, cheek, and eyebrow, one eye swollen nearly closed already. He’s not wearing a coat, his shirt is ripped, and Clarke can see the bruises forming over his ribcage. 

Octavia has a pile of dish towels in her shaking hands. “I’ve never seen him this bad before,” she’s breathing hard, afraid to touch him. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I have a first aid kit in my car--” a real one, fitted with steri-strips and ace bandages, ice packs, “here, press down on his lip, even if he hates it.”

She’s back in a flash, thinking about all the times Raven has patched her up. She stares at Murphy’s destroyed face, his slim ribs with their bruises. More than fists did this to him, and he needs a doctor. 

He won’t get one in this two-bit town. Clarke is the best chance he has, and so she retreats to the kitchen for a bowl of warm water with rubbing alcohol added, gently moves Octavia out of the way, and starts to clean Murphy’s face.

His eyes are wounded and wild, he jerks from her, “you’re hurting me, you’re hurting me, I’m already hurt, Christ…”

His words are distorted, and she thinks he may have a concussion. 

“Murphy, I’m sorry. You’re a mess, and I have to get the blood off. Okay? Let me help you.”

Octavia hovers, whispers, “Murphy, she’s got you, be quiet.”

Clarke makes her touch feather-light, her voice quiet and calm. “Raven’s actually so much better at this than I am.” Murphy moves a good eye to her at the mention of Raven. “Yeah, she’s had to do it for me so many times. She has a really soft and methodical way of making things all better. Like a mom. A tough mom, but a mom. When we were about twelve, once, she busted it so hard on a skateboard. You should have seen her knee. That’s maybe the last time I had to fix someone else up. But my mom’s a doctor. I can do this…” 

The way he’s laying under her hands, still, trying not to wince, and the limp way he acquiesces to her soft instructions is breaking her heart. His eye is the worst, blood streaking out of it for ages no matter how hard she presses, and she finds herself whispering “sorry, sorry, so sorry,” while he whimpers. There’s blood all over her hands, her shirt where he fell against her, and while she likes Murphy she doesn’t know him terribly well. This is intimacy on a level they’ll never be able to escape, and she prays that he doesn’t remember this night much tomorrow. 

She can’t get the right angle with the steri-strips, eventually she sits on the couch, pulls his head into her lap, and places them with careful fingers. First his lip, fat, bruised, and split nearly down the middle, then his sharp cheekbone, with a cut probably made by a ring, and then the eyebrow, which’ll certainly have a scar no matter how deftly tended to. 

Octavia’s been pacing, tears streaking down her cheeks only to be wiped away impatiently. Clarke thinks it must be quite late, nearly midnight, and Murphy’s head is starting to loll to the side. He keeps snapping himself awake, and the look in his face every time is nearly animal. Clarke aches for something that will relax him, asks Octavia: “You guys don’t keep painkillers in the house, do you? Like, leftover from dental work or anything like that?”

The younger girl is barely gone an instant, Clarke can hear her rifling through drawers, rummaging in cabinets. She returns with an amber prescription bottle bearing Bellamy’s name. 

“Bell hurt his knee last summer, hated the way these made him feel. He hid them from me in case I got addicted or whatever but he’s not so wonderful with the secrets. And I can barely swallow cold medicine. How he thought I’d get addicted to Percocet is beyond me.”

Clarke gives her a smile. “Can you bring him a drink? I’ll see if I can get Murphy to take them.” She touches his shoulder gently. “Hey, we found you some meds. C’mon, try to take them, then you can get some sleep.”

He moves restlessly against her, props himself up on one shoulder, trying to maneuver the cup around his busted lip. Clarke takes the opportunity to shift, curling her legs under her, so she’s more comfortable when Murphy listlessly drops back in her lap and exhaustion flutters his eyelids. Octavia covers him with a blanket, murmurs that she’s going to bed.

Clarke originally tells herself that she’s on guard, protecting Octavia against people who don't belong in this town, protecting Murphy in case his father comes calling. But she’s been strong all night, for Bellamy, for Octavia, and now for Murphy, and she’s feeling careworn and depressed. Eventually she nods off against her arm, tired, still wearing the shirt smeared with Murphy’s blood.

And Sinclair’s Garage burns on in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Bend and Not Break, Dashboard Confessional


	6. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which conclusions are drawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of the aftereffects of abuse. Some references to fucked up things that happened in Arkadia--adults taking advantage of teenagers. I don't go into details, just mention it in passing. If you're worried about being triggered, please feel free to click on the end notes. There's nothing terribly spoiler-y.

Bellamy arrives in the wee hours of the morning, reeking of smoke, gas, and burned, broken things. He never knew he could be so exhausted, and suspects it has something to do with having to watch in frustration while someone else’s life goes up in flames. Someone he admires, someone he loves.

He notices that the living room lights are still blazing, wonders if the girls waited up for him. He’s not expecting the scene that greets him: the tormented, beaten Murphy in Clarke’s lap, Clarke asleep on her folded arm, blood streaked down her sweater and across her cheek. 

Murphy has shown up near-monthly with bruises since he was old enough to walk to Bellamy’s house. They’re used to him, to giving him aspirin and an ice pack, to finding him a place to sleep and extra blankets. But Bellamy has never seen him torn to shreds like this, never known Murphy Senior to issue a beating with much more than his fists and maybe a belt or once, a thrown boot. 

Bellamy’s stomach twists, a small thanks going up that Clarke was here. If Murphy had come and found no one home, there could have been serious consequences. So before he sheds his dirty clothes, before he crawls into bed, he finds a pillow, wakes Clarke up, and shifts the pillow under Murphy’s head. 

Clarke is swaying on her feet, and Bellamy’s right there with her. He pulls her down the hall and to the bathroom, helps her take her sweater and then the top under it off, wipes the smudge on her cheek. She turns on the shower for him, peels his grimy, stinky clothes off layer by layer. She sits on the edge of the tub while he showers, and she doesn’t ask a single question about the fire after affirming that no one had been hurt. 

They collapse into bed in clean pajamas, wrapping around each other, trying to warm their bones. 

Bellamy dreams about smoke. 

The morning comes sooner than feels quite right, and Bellamy wants to pull the covers over his head but can feel the house moving around him, coffee brewing, bacon frying, Murphy’s dry voice arguing quietly with Octavia. Clarke makes a small noise next to him, a growl of frustration: “What if we murder them?”

When she folds down the warm blanket to get out of bed, Bellamy nearly whimpers. 

Neither of them has told the other exactly what happened last night, and in the bright gray sunlight of the morning Bellamy doesn’t feel like sharing, wants to pretend it never happened. Clarke doesn’t ask, just brushes her lips across his forehead, says, “c’mon, I need coffee.”

When he opens his eyes to look at her she’s drained, no color in her cheeks, looking tired in a way he wasn’t expecting, and hurts his chest. He follows her to the kitchen and drops into a rickety chair, watches Clarke approach Murphy.

Murphy’s flipping sizzling bacon with an expert flick of the wrist, Octavia leaning against the counter, drinking cocoa, watching him like he might evaporate before her eyes. Before Clarke pulls down a mug, she puts an arm around Murphy’s waist, leans into him gently. 

Bellamy can’t hear what she says, her voice soft and reassuring. Murphy moves so stiffly it’s heartbreaking, but eventually he puts an arm around Clarke and speaks into her ear, then kisses her temple. 

Their entire lives, Bellamy has never seen Murphy so kind, so tender. 

Never seen him so broken, either, one eye swollen closed in shades of violent pink and purple, face taped carefully back together like someone’s favorite picture. Bellamy never could have done that himself, doesn’t own the correct bandages and might have been too horrified to concentrate in any case. 

But Clarke could--Clarke did--fix it to the best of her ability, and then she was too kind to force Murphy from her lap, and Bellamy doesn’t know how long she sat there as if Murphy was an oversized, injured kitten. 

Clarke’s breaking away, grabbing mugs and the bubbling coffee pot, flashing Bellamy the kind of smile he’s come to expect from her, an easy, everything’s-okay kind of smile. 

Everything’s not okay, but she’ll try, like she always does, to make him feel like it is. She puts the sugar next to his mug, grabs the cream for hers, pulls down four plates and puts them in between Octavia and Murphy. “Toast?” she says to the younger girl, and Octavia gives a nod, tears her eyes from Murphy and finds the bread for the toaster. 

When they’ve all loaded plates with breakfast, and are sitting around the table, Octavia blurts out a question Bellamy’s sure she’s been holding back since she woke up: “What happened at the garage?”

Clarke bites her lip. Murphy raises his non-stitched eyebrow. 

Bellamy sighs: “Not really sure. Raven was working on her bike in the driveway...she’s pretty sure there were three of them. They came up from the woods, splashed gas all around the foundation and up the walls, lit it up. By the time Raven got hold of Sinclair, the fire was raging.” To Clarke: “We don’t have a fire station...they finally showed up from Arkadia about an hour and a half later. Too late. Sinclair says that his insurance will cover it, but…” he lifts his shoulder.

“I still can’t understand it,” Octavia gestures with a strip of bacon. “Like, if it had been anywhere else--Diyoza’s bar, the high school, I’d be shocked but I could wrap my mind about it. But Sinclair’s?”

Murphy speaks carefully, rounding the words through his damaged bottom lip: “They have to be from somewhere else. No one from Polis would do it.”

“He’s helped so many people,” Octavia adds. “I don’t know if you get it, Clarke, but he’s just the best person.”

Clarke’s got scrambled eggs on the end of her fork, her face slightly scrunched up. “I do get it. I mean, Raven’s my closest friend and he welcomed her to his house with open arms, and I see how he treats Bellamy. I can’t imagine anyone having a bone to pick with the man.”

Bellamy’s watching her carefully. Something’s off in her voice, something beyond normal confusion written in her eyes. 

Clarke is drawing conclusions, he can tell, and the conclusions are scaring and worrying her. But what’s she thinking about--what evidence is there from the scant outline he just shared?

_Raven was working on her bike in the driveway…_

Bellamy watches her chew her food absently, gather the plates and dump them in the sink. Then she just stands there, hands clenched on the countertop, long after Octavia has left to take a shower and Murphy has mumbled something about a nap. 

“Clarke?”

She hmms a question at him, plastering a smile to her lips, turning as if to open her arms. “Yeah, Bellamy?”

He tilts his head at her, trying to figure out how to phrase a question and not have it sound like an accusation--of Raven, and of Clarke by extension. 

“Don’t do that,” she says, sighing, giving him her back. “You’re fucking cute when you do that.”

“What are you thinking about?” He asks finally. “What’s going on in your brain?”

She sinks into the chair next to him, props her ankles across his lap. “I don’t know, I can’t--something’s wrong here.” She rubs her forehead. “Raven never texted me back last night.”

The sentences are linked, he knows that perfectly well. 

“I saw her,” Bellamy offers. “I mean, she was with us, when the garage was burning. She never left, and she wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s not it,” Clarke shakes her head, tired, groping for words, “it’s--Raven’s been my best friend since I was little. Eight years old. And we have never held back from each other, never kept secrets. She knows everything about me and I thought I knew everything about her. But ever since she moved to Polis, something hasn’t been right--it’s like she barely speaks to me. No matter how hard I try, she just...closes down. Now you’re saying she was out in front of the garage when this went down?”

“What’s the connection, though?” Bellamy can’t follow Clarke’s line of thought. “What does it matter where she was?”

“If this is all connected to Raven somehow, if she’s in trouble and people are following her, and they saw her in front of Sinclair’s? I mean, burning down the garage could be a signal to her. A warning.”

“But what could she have done?” Bellamy doesn’t mean to be rude, but out with it: “she’s barely out of high school. What kind of top-secret shit could have gone down, that they’d follow her to another town--that they’d burn something down to warn her? And she was right there--why didn’t they just, I dunno, punch her, beat her up?”

Clarke shakes her head, rubs her eyes, leans an elbow on the table and gives a frustrated sigh: “I don’t know, Bellamy, but something’s not right and I think...I think Raven’s in the middle of it. And that’s scaring me.”

Bellamy closes his hands over her white knuckles, warming up her cold fingers. “Have you tried asking her?”

_Because I’m going to ask her_ , he thinks. _I’m gonna ask her, and damn the consequences._

Clarke, despite her eyes pinned half across the room, despite her mind being somewhere else entirely, hears the threat in his voice.

“Give me some time,” she says. “Give me just a little time to figure this out. I know I can get the truth from her.”

“And in the meantime, what?” Bellamy challenges. “In the meantime they burn down the house? The diner? The whole damn town? And what about Raven--her safety--what about Sinclair--what if next time they just wait outside and shoot them?”

“Well, I can’t fucking change that, can I, Bellamy?” She’s on her feet, biting her thumbnail. “I need some time to get around Raven, okay? She’s not just going to spill her guts--in fact she might want to keep her secret even more now that this has happened. It’s a heavy load, to know that she’s caused this.” Clarke taps her fingers on the counter. “In a few days she’s going to be feeling insanely guilty and I’m pretty sure I can make that work for me.”

Bellamy can’t decide if he should laugh or be appalled at Clarke’s plan to manipulate her friend. “Do you know why she got sent here?” he asks, looking carefully at his coffee, not sure he wants to see Clarke’s reaction. “Because this is probably part of that…”

He’s surprised at the way she hesitates. She’s skittering around the kitchen like a nervous puppy, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, he watches her think about it and finally she says, “I don’t exactly know. Raven, she never had money like I had money, and she was always coming up with these...plans, and schemes, to make extra cash. That’s how she got the money for her bike, you know? And she was shuttling a lot of it into a college fund. Sometimes I knew what she was doing, sometimes I didn’t. It wasn’t important, you know? Like selling test answer keys. Or running stuff around town--she never said what, but I figured it was supplies. For making drugs. Real Breaking Bad style shit.” 

“In Arkadia?” he scoffs, his laugh a little ugly. 

The look Clarke gives him is scathing. 

“Bellamy, there’s a lot you don’t know about Arkadia.”

The darkness to her tone brings something welling up inside him, something protective, something fierce. 

“You think you know about small towns ‘cause you’re from here,” Clarke tells him, “But Polis is nothing like Arkadia. The secrets, the lies? You think Raven’s causing trouble? You think she should feel bad? She’s got nothing on others. She’s innocent as a babe in arms when you compare her to my grandfather, to the Chief of Police, the middle school principal. My chemistry teacher took and sold naked pictures of the girls on the track team. The youth pastor at First Baptist was sleeping with the FCA president, a thirty year old man sleeping with a sixteen year old boy--and you think I should care if Raven sold test keys? I just don’t, Bellamy. Out of all of the shady, awful shit being covered up in Arkadia, Raven’s little indiscretions never mattered at all.”

“Until now,” Bellamy reminds her, “they never mattered until now.”

At this, Clarke nods unhappily. “I don’t know what the last straw was. She called me, asked me to loan her some money, and I did. I always do, when she has to ask, I’ve never once told her no. This time it was a lot of money, though. $8,000.”

Bellamy’s mouth falls open. “You pulled it from your trust fund?” he finally manages, “your mom didn’t freak out?”

“She did. She freaked out a lot.” Clarke touches her side, where the buckle caught her ribs. “My grandfather really just lost his marbles, though. It was just a control thing, eight thousand dollars isn't even a drop in the bucket to him, but he was angry that I didn’t ask. Angry that I refused to tell him what I used it for. Mom turned me over to him, said she hoped I’d learned my lesson.”

Clarke tucks a loose curl behind her ear, gives a little shiver. Bellamy rises to put his arms around her. “Okay. You gave her the money, and then what happened?”

“She got caught driving a stolen car. Or at least, a car that didn’t belong to her. She insisted a friend asked her to pick it up and bring it to their house, but...the house was empty, the friend didn’t respond to calls. The VIN was wrong. It was a weird, nonsensical mess and in the end they just let her go. No victim, no crime. And she’s a pretty seventeen year old girl. No one wanted to see her get in too much trouble. But it was the last straw for her Aunt Callie--that’s how Raven ended up with Sinclair.” 

“What about the money?” 

Clarke has a particular look when she’s pretending she doesn’t care about things. A stubbornness to her chin, a glazing over of her eyes. Bellamy’s starting to find it familiar, starting to hate it a little, actually. She finally shrugs a slim shoulder. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to ask her, I didn’t want it to seem like I was asking for it back or like it was bothering me.” 

“But it is,” Bellamy sinks his fingertips into her soft hair, “it is clearly bothering you.”

“Because it’s all wrong! That’s a lot of money, why would she need to run a different scheme to get more? And why would she steal a car? And if she was going to steal a car, she’s a smart girl, why’d she come up with such a stupid excuse? And I don’t understand, like I really do not, how she could have done something so epically idiotic that it would follow her to Polis and lead to someone burning down a garage just because she’s hanging out in front of it--or just because she works there. How could anyone be sure that she’d understand the message is meant for her?” Clarke closes her eyes, makes a loose gesture with her hands, a _don’t touch me._ A _stop_. “I can’t understand it, and I can see she’s scared. Whatever she’s done--she’s brought it here and now you’re all in danger. I need to figure it out before something else happens, whether she tells me the truth about it or not, because Bellamy, what if you’d been in the garage last night? You work late all the time. You could’ve been under a car. You could’ve been stuck inside. You could have been hurt.”

Clarke has one hand on her stomach, like she feels sick, and he pulls her in, crushes her against his chest. “I’m not hurt, though,” he murmurs against her hair. “I’m not hurt, and we’re going to figure this out.”

Bellamy rocks her back and forth for a minute, waiting for her to relax against him, waiting for her to let go. 

He doesn’t get much more than a tiny sigh, the smallest loss of control as she sags a bit in his arms. “I can’t stand thinking that I’ve accidentally brought trouble down on your head.”

“How could you have? Even in theory, this is down to Raven.”

“I’ve been living here, practically. I came with her knowing I was looking for you. Knowing I wanted to be with you.”

This causes a pang in Bellamy’s chest, a tiny grin on his lips. He moves his lips across her forehead. “It’s crazy sometimes to remember that you’re the person I ran across when I was sweating in front of that milk case the week after Christmas.”

“You felt important,” she murmurs against his chest, “I didn’t know who you were, but you felt important.”

In his mind a picture of Clarke flashes, her wild grin, pink cheeks as she shakes a chocolate bar out of her sleeve and presents it to him. 

_Are you going to starve to death_ , she’d asked. _We can hit every grocery store in a hundred mile radius,_ she’d said, _I’ll back you up_. 

_What a girl_ , he’d thought at the time. _What a lifesaver_.

“What happened with Murphy last night?” He skates over the things that he wants to say, pretends he hasn’t heard Clarke nearly declare her love a million times. “Where’d you get the first aid stuff to patch him up?”

“I keep a fully stocked kit in my car,” Clarke admits, “I’ve needed it a dozen times, and I needed it last night. I know you said not to let anyone in, but I recognized his voice and opened the door--and he was just bleeding everywhere and beaten up so badly. So uh, Octavia and I patched him up.”

An exaggeration about Octavia, one that she’s planned on making since last night. 

Because Clarke believes in lies.

And she’ll lie; about Raven, about Octavia, about anything, if she thinks it’ll keep Bellamy safe. 

So she gives him big blue eyes, her best innocent face, and changes the conversation to something new, something different, and turns over the truth in her mind. 

Raven’s in trouble, and Clarke knows exactly why.

She only has to figure out how to fix it, and she needs Bellamy to give her a little time.

So Clarke will continue to pretend she needs a few days to figure things out--

And lie, lie, lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of adults taking explicit pictures of teenage girls, and an adult grooming and having sex with a teenage boy. There are no details about these situations, they are mentioned in passing.
> 
> Chapter Title from Lie to Me/5SOS. (My daughter's favorite band for a hundred years. I know the songs by heart without even meaning to.)
> 
> I've mentioned in the comments before, I think, that I've written Arkadia to be very similar to the small town I grew up in. (And Polis is based on a nearby town.) The examples I chose to show the nasty underbelly of Arkadia really happened, and I have dozens more. Small towns are fucked up.
> 
> My baby girl Clarke would do anything to keep Bellamy and Octavia safe. What'll happen when push comes to shove and the truth comes to light?
> 
> Hope y'all are staying warm and safe this winter. We're back to sixties and seventies here and last week's storms feel like a traumatic fever dream. It's going to take a long time to get over the fear I felt for my family when the heat was out and the ice was keeping us trapped in the house. 
> 
> Love your comments more than nineties country music.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to @StanleyPilar, who suggested this fic when I was feeling very taken with Bellamy's past while writing Darling, Let Me Wreck You. I know perfectly well that I should have updated Darling tonight, but I could not get this chapter out of my head and had to write it! 
> 
> Fic title from Bright Eyes' iconic song, Something Vague, which is about being depressed in the winter and really set the scene for me, chapter title from No One's Gonna Love You/Band of Horses.
> 
> I will update tags frequently as we go along, and I will update often...as soon as I finish Darling! 
> 
> (Also, Food Plus is the name of the grocery store that was in MY small town when I was growing up. It's long gone out of business, but I knew every single person who worked there and I just had to include it.)


End file.
